


Fumble

by yeaka



Category: Common Law
Genre: Anal Sex, Drunk Sex, Handcuffs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-23 16:33:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/624254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They celebrate a case with drinks. Then this happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fumble

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Common Law or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Wes was either drunk as fuck or one sip away from it, but Travis seemed drunker. So he was the one that got to get half-carried. Wes wasn’t even close to sober enough to carry someone through a dark warehouse, but he was the more upright of the two, and was therefore elected anyway. Travis’ arm was draped over his shoulder and his own was at Travis’ waist. They were stumbling haphazardly through the junk Travis called ‘stuff,’ in the general direction of his trailer. Because it was closer than the hotel. And obviously neither of them could drive. Even drunk as fuck, Wes knew that; he didn’t spend half his time quoting the law to forget something that basic.

Travis was uncomfortably all-over-him while he moved. And by uncomfortably, Wes meant awkwardly-confusingly. He was half-supporting his partner’s weight, and said partner leaned too close and felt too hot and smelt musky and strong. Like the drunk man he was, but still of his sexy cologne. (Which was what it was, and not at all a deduction on Wes’ part.) Travis was rambling something useless in his usual deep voice, (made a little more incoherent by the alcohol) interspersed with his usual endearing chuckles, during which he kept resting his head on the crook of Wes’ neck, and Wes was too busy trying to keep them from toppling over to push him aside. It was making him flush uncomfortably.

Getting to the trailer was a feat in itself. At the back doors, Wes let go of his partner to fiddle with the handle, which suddenly seemed to grow ten times more elusive and slippery than usual. Travis didn’t go easily—he clung to Wes’ shoulders and Wes had to forcibly brush him off. Travis nearly stumbled to the floor. But he caught himself an inch or two short of that and slumped against the metal door instead. Then promptly burst into a fit of laughter, which Wes only put up with because it cut off his story about ‘that unbelievably hot girl at the bar who totally gave him the eye and might’ve been the one.’ (Or as Wes liked to call it, Every Second Story That Came Out of Travis’ Stupid Mouth.)

He got the door open with more trouble than he’d ever tell anyone. Travis was the first to go in, though. He tugged Wes by the wrist and bee-lined for the mattress crowding the floor before collapsing onto it. On sheer instinct to disagree wherever Travis was involved, Wes’ upper body tried to resist. But the signal didn’t make it all the way to his legs, so he tumbled forward anyway. Travis rolled helpfully out of the way, so Wes landed safely by his side, face first. Good thing it was a mattress and not the concrete floor outside. He groaned heavily and lifted himself up, noticing belatedly that there weren’t even sheets on the mattress. Not sheets that were secured down, anyway. It must have been laundry day. Or week. Did his partner stay up at night thinking of ways to annoy him?

“Fuck, Travis...” He groaned, to which Travis grinned like a mischievous child who got a kick out of torturing his parents. Except that Travis wouldn’t know anything about real parents, and that thought made Wes chuckle aloud.

“Do you wanna?” Travis slurred. When Wes rolled to face him, they were so close their knees brushed. But then, it was a small mattress. (By Wes’ standards.) They were close enough that Wes could feel Travis’ alcohol-ridden breath ghost across his nose, and he stopped chuckling to look at his partner properly. Which was a bit of a strain between his blurry vision and the lack of light. The trailer itself was dead dark, but the faint glow of the small overhead lights and the red hotel sign outside glinted in through the windows, washing Travis in a pale glow that perfectly lit every inch of his dark skin. He was sprawled out on his side, eyes somehow both alluringly half-lidded and naughtily bright. His grey shirt had ridden up his chest a bit, exposing his chiseled stomach. Not that his shirt needed to be up for Wes to make out his body; his clothes always had a form-hugging way of showing off all his muscles. And Travis had a lot to show off.

Wes had to consciously stop himself from looking after a moment. Right, Travis had said something. Back to blue eyes, so irritatingly like his own. What was he thinking, anyway? He’d had one too many. Or five too many. They were lying way too close. “What?”

“Fuck,” Travis repeated, grinning broadly.

There was an awkward moment of silence that felt like five hours, but was probably south of five minutes.

And then Travis did the completely unexpected: he grabbed Wes by the back of his head so fast he didn’t have time to blink, and pulled them that extra inch together. Their mouths hit clumsily and Wes tilted his head the right way on sheer instinct. He knew how to kiss. They were so close the abrupt tug had lined everything up; their knees were bumping and their chests collided through their shirts, and Wes didn’t know what to do with his arms. They flew out to Travis’ strong shoulders to steady himself; he needed steadying. It was so sudden he couldn’t even process it. Travis was kissing him. And he gasped and Travis’ tongue made it into his mouth; he was kissing Travis back. Fuck. Way too much to drink. This was going to be hell to bring up in therapy.

Then Travis was rolling on top of him as fast as the kiss had started, legs falling heavily to either side of Wes, the first hand staying to hold his blond head in place and the other running down his body, clutching at his pants—Wes broke the kiss first to gasp. It wasn’t just that he felt his partner’s full weight against him; he felt _Travis_ , and Travis was definitely happy to see him.

Travis stayed on top of him—heavy and warm and flush against all the right parts. Travis lifted himself ever so slightly up on his arms to look down at Wes; they were almost still fully in contact and their noses could almost brush. Wes looked firmly to the side, arms collapsed in the rumpled, unfolded sheets.

And he said the first thing that came to mind, in a semi-shocked and semi-breathless voice, “’The fuck was that?”

They were saying a lot of ‘fuck’s that evening, which in retrospect was a bad way to start out. Or a good way, depending on your point of view. Either way, Travis looked completely unapologetic, and shrugged, and said, “You told me to,” except his words ran together a bit.

Wes’ head snapped back around. “No, I didn’t!” Trust Travis to get everything backwards.

“You did too!” And he argued like a four-year-old. (Really? They were even going to argue during this, whatever this was?)

“I did not, you idiot—you know damn well that’s not what I—” Travis cut him off with another hot kiss; it was much more well-aligned this time and Wes’ eyes fell instantly closed, body pressing up. He couldn’t help it: pure instinct. This time Travis held him more firmly in place; he couldn’t move away if he wanted too. He didn’t want to. He put his tongue in Travis’ mouth first and got battled back, and fought for the dominance he eventually lost. Travis started grinding shallowly against him, and Wes could feel the hard bulge in his partner’s jeans that showed just how much fun he was having. Wes was too drunk to care that his own body was responding, and if he’d been on top he would’ve been grinding down too.

As it was, he was trying vainly to hump upwards, but the strong hips that held him down set the pace instead. Wes suddenly understood why Travis got so many girls despite his incredibly irritating (and maybe endearing) personality; he was an amazing kisser and it took every bit of willpower Wes had not to melt. But as lost as he was, he knew he didn’t have much of that willpower left; he wouldn’t be able to resist much longer and whimpered. Then immediately regretted it. Wesley Mitchell didn’t whimper. (Except, apparently, where Travis Marks was concerned—damnit.) Travis grinned against his mouth and finally let go; Wes whined at the loss.

“Yer more fun drunk,” Travis slurred, and dropped his head into Wes’ shoulder. Wes winced and bit his wet lower lip. Travis’ hips were still moving. Hitting him right there. Then Travis stopped suddenly, hesitated a moment (probably to let his head catch up with the movement) and crawled off Wes to fish around off the edge of the mattress. Wes lifted his head to look, found he couldn’t support it properly, and fell back down. Maybe it was more alcohol. Shit, he could use more alcohol. Then in the morning he could say he was practically unconscious and couldn’t be held accountable for his completely inappropriate actions.

If he remembered one thing in the morning, it’d have to be it was Travis’ fault. Travis had started it. All his fault. Wes was mumbling that to himself when Travis climbed back onto him and grabbed clumsily at his wrists. “What’re you—?” Wes couldn’t form the full sentence and let himself be manhandled. Travis’ lips were a bit swollen from being kissed; Wes’ felt worse. His mouth felt empty with just one tongue in it. Travis turned him over by his arms and held his hands out to the side of the trailer, which was mostly a black blur at this point. But there must have been a wedged-shut door or something there, because Travis found a protruding curve to hold his hands too and loop the handcuffs through.

Wait, handcuffs?

Once they were already clicked around his wrists and it was way too late, Wes swore loudly and tugged at them. But they were real. Because Travis was a policemen. His partner. Fuck. “What the fuck—” He tugged at them anyway, rattling the metal and making it cut into his skin and getting him nowhere. Somewhere in the background he heard Travis laugh, and he tried to roll over to punch Travis before realizing he couldn’t. Goddamnit.

The best Wes could do was look over his shoulder at his partner, and then look back quickly when he realized said partner was stripping. Well, taking his shirt off, anyway. But that was enough to make Wes’ pants even more uncomfortably tight. And this time he really meant the word uncomfortably. They were tented already, straining for freedom. If only he wore baggier clothing. Why did Travis have to be so damn chiseled? He had a movie star body and a porn star mouth. And he had Wes handcuffed to his mattress. And Wes was hard. So, so hard. And not entirely sure that was all a bad thing. His head was swimming and none of it helped.

“Damnit.”

Wes looked over again and promptly remembered why he’d looked away in the first place. But he couldn’t look away now. Travis was down to his very low-riding boxers, and his legs were no less muscled than his arms. The cream light hit his dark skin in just the right way; he couldn’t have looked more gorgeous if he was posing for a professional photographer. Or so Wes strongly felt, anyway. The black set of curls running down his stomach to disappear into his boxers had Wes unconsciously licking his lips. It took him a moment to notice the distress on Travis’ face.

“What?” he muttered.

“I handcuffed you.”

“I noticed.”

Travis rolled his eyes and held out his hand like it was obvious. “No, you idiot! I handcuffed you with your clothes still on.” Then his eyebrows rose promptly, an idea clearly dawning on him. Looking to the side, he muttered absently, “’Think I have scissors around here somewhere...”

“Travis!” His partner was already getting off the mattress. Wes pulled on the cuffs like there was no tomorrow, and the metal on metal made one hell of a racket. “Don’t you dare! Don’t you even—!”

Travis hesitated in the doorway, looking over with a big stupid grin. “I think I dare.”

“You fucking—I’ll never forgive you!”

It was too hot outside for a jacket, even this late, but Wes’ shirt was expensive enough to warrant an everlasting grudge on its own. And it was tailored, too. Travis seemed to take pity on him and wandered closer—Wes tried to kick him, but couldn’t get the right angle and ended up falling over. “Hey, hey,” his partner cooed, like he was talking to a difficult horse he was trying to ride. (A fitting analogy, actually.) “Take it easy.”

“I swear to god, Travis, if you wreck this shirt I’ll—” but Travis leaned down over him and caught him in a kiss so fast and hard he forgot what he was going to say. It was a bit awkward kissing over his shoulder, but Travis’ tongue made it worth the stretch. It had him moaning again in no time, and it didn’t stop while Travis’ hands started to stray. They fiddled with his buttons, and Wes tried to stay still to help the process. He wanted Travis in front of him again—he wanted something to buck into, something to give him friction. Like a warm, hot body. Travis’ hot body. God, no wonder they needed counseling. They were partners, for fuck’s sake, and yet Travis skillfully unbuttoning his top and then sliding his long hands over Wes’ taught stomach seemed the most natural thing in the world right now.

Wes broke the kiss accidentally—he had to moan and needed more room for it. It was painful to keep his neck stretched around like that anyway, and Travis took the opportunity to settle in behind him, pressing their bodies together again. Wes could feel his partner’s erection digging into his ass, and it almost frightened him how little that bothered him. If anything, it turned him on even more. (To think of all those girls Travis had wasted time on... and yet he could get rock solid in minutes for the man across his desk. It gave Wes an odd sort of pride.)

Travis opened Wes’ shirt as wide as it would go and moved the collar with his teeth to leave a hot, open-mouthed kiss on Wes’ neck. Then he dropped his head and growled into Wes’ shoulder, making Wes gasp wantonly and arch backwards. Travis’ hands slipped expertly down to his jeans.

Had Travis ever done this before? With a man, he meant. Because this had passed the innocent-fooling-around line several minutes ago. The hard rod rubbing between the clothed cheeks of his ass was distinctly rated X. Wes had never done this before. Or anything remotely like this—it had never been like this with Alex. Either Wes was having a large personal realization, or there was something very powerful in that alcohol.

But the memories of sex—particularly drunk sex—put something else in his head. It took a moment to articulate it. “P... protection,” he muttered, and Travis instantly stopped biting at his shoulders.

Pulling back a little (just his head, thank God not his body) he muttered, “Jesus...”

“I’m drunk, I’m not stupid,” Wes muttered angrily. There was a definite awe in Travis’ voice, and Wes wasn’t at all in the mood for another row right now. He didn’t have to ask if Travis had any condoms. There were probably more in his trailer than the convenient store down the street. “It’s non-negotiable.”

“No,” Travis hurriedly explained, “That’s not what I meant.”

“Well what’d you mean?” If they were seriously going to fight right now, might as well break out the jabs. “With you it’d be insane not to protect myself.”

“No!” Travis breathed. And he sounded surprisingly not-angry. “I meant, Jesus, you’re really gonna let me fuck you?”

Wes instantly went a horrible shade of pink. Oh.

Fuck.

He hadn’t... he’d just assumed... goddamnit. Well, wasn’t that where this was all headed? This being the drunken fumbling and the messy making out and the years of working together and being together and getting all hot and bothered only for each other? He didn’t regret saying it, but he hated being the first to put it out there at the same time.

But... there was no way he was just going to let a practically naked Travis rub one off against his backside and leave it at that. They were going to hell now anyway. Might as well fully deserve it.

“Just...” Wes audibly swallowed: a metaphor for his pride. “Just... get the stupid condom.”

Travis didn’t need to be told twice. He was away from Wes and his weight left the mattress in a heartbeat. Wes couldn’t see where he went, and didn’t want to look anyway, in case Travis could make his blush out through the darkness. It was all Travis’ fault, really. He had to remember that. All stupid Travis’ stupid fault.

The mattress fell down with the return of Travis’ body, and Wes heard the familiar crinkle and rip of small, square packaging. Travis was putting it on already. Fuck. He had Wes’ pants unzipped but still on, and his shirt messily open. At least there was that last bit of shielding left, to protect him from further embarrassment. But then Travis’ hands were back on his pants and shoving them so roughly down that Wes had to bark, “Hey, easy with those...!” But the growl turned into a hiss as one of Travis’ hands slipped down to his aching dick, the other caressing his now-bare ass. And now he could feel that Travis wasn’t wearing boxers anymore—the wet latex slid easily between his crack and Wes involuntarily hissed, “Oh fuck, fuck, fuck...”

“I plan on it,” Travis chuckled into his ear; Wes wanted to roll over and punch him. Or kiss him. Or both. Wes’ hands were balled into tight fists—he wanted to touch himself so bad. Travis was pumping him torturously slowly, dick sliding slickly along his backside—and just then Wes realized it was wet—Travis must have gotten some kind of lube—his hands were wet too. Perfect. Great. Brilliant Travis. Wes mentally took back everything he ever said about Travis being stupid.

Then Travis slipped a finger down to rub his hole, and Wes cringed. It was hot up until he pushed it in—then it was strange. Even with the lube, it stung. But it was a confusing mix, because Travis was still fisting his cock, and that felt unbelievably good. And the finger went too far in and started stretching. It stung more. The lube was cold. But it was necessary to get Travis in him. And God, he wanted Travis in him. But Travis was touching his dick and he was so high on lust he didn’t care how foreign and odd the second finger felt as it breached him; Travis scissored him slowly and Wes simultaneously wanted to shout “slower,” and “faster,” at the same time. Travis did it slowly. Did it right. It felt weird all the way up to a sudden jab at a certain spot, and that made Wes cry out in _want_.

Travis did it again, and Wes moaned, “Fuck! _Yesss_...” He even found himself grinding his hips back, loving the way Travis’ hard cock slid against his cheeks. It still hurt, but it felt great. Mind blowing. The double stimulation was almost too much. “...Right there...” Fuck. He really was gay. Or bisexual or whatever. (Or at least for Travis.)

“Yeah, you like that?” Travis’ voice was lower, thicker. It made a shiver go down Wes’ spine. Another finger. That same spot. Ooh, yes. “Like that, baby?” Wes’ brain was too wrecked to answer, but any other time he would’ve punched his partner out for calling him that. Or talking to him like that. The words were rated G, but the tone was R. It made Wes impossible hard.

“Hnnnmmm...” he was making impossible begging sounds. When Travis pulled his fingers out, Wes actually whined at the loss of content.

Travis chuckled and practically purred, “Don’t worry, baby, this is the good part.” And Wes felt something very hard and wet nudge at his entrance, much bigger than the fingers. Fuck. He was really going to do it. He was really going to have Travis’ cock inside him. It was really... it pressed in, and Wes nearly screamed.

Travis froze instantly, but Wes, after a second, moaned, “No, no... keep... keep going...” he wanted to piston his hips back and get it over with, but Travis had a firm grip on them. And he went in slow. Agonizing slow. Inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt and Wes could feel his partner’s balls on his ass. It was unbelievably big. It felt like he was going to be split in two. He’d never been so full before, and he didn’t know how it felt or how to describe it.

Then Travis rocked into him and he whimpered, and Travis growled, “Fuuuck, Wes. You’re so _tight_...”

He pulled a little further out and pushed back in, making Wes slide up the mattress. Out again, in again. On the third thrust, he hit that perfect spot, and Wes screamed louder than ever in pleasure, his erection immediately filling out again. Travis bit his neck, pulled out, and slammed back in, perfectly on the mark—Wes threw his head back onto his partner’s shoulder. He couldn’t even think anymore. It was too good. Too good. Travis pulled out and slammed in, hard, bucking him forward across the mattress every time, then pulling him roughly back by the hips. His pace sped up, got fast, was messy, uncoordinated and drunk, but it was all perfect to Wes. Perfect and un-fucking-believable. He moaned with every hit, and Travis started pumping his dick with one hand again—he wasn’t going to last long like this. He had to get his wrists free. He had to feel everything. Wanted to feel Travis’ strong abs, pull him back against him, further into him.

They couldn’t last long, but fuck, he wanted it to, wanted it to go forever—it was the hardest, fucking best sex Wes had ever had. By a long, long shot, and he couldn’t even explain it. His head was putty. He let Travis do everything: hold his hips and fuck him brutally and almost slam him into the wall with the force—pull them tight together and God Travis was _huge_. The stretch and the burn was nothing to the pleasure—the incredible pleasure of feeling Travis inside him, and knowing it was _Travis_ , his partner, his gorgeous, hot as hell partner. He was ruined after this. He knew that. No one else could ever live up to this, just Travis, that was all he wanted, inside him, harder, faster, more—

Wes’ eyes were rolling up in his head and his toes were curling, and Travis was holding his legs apart. He needed his hands. Had to touch everything; he wanted to touch Travis so bad. But he couldn’t. Could barely move. He didn’t have the right angle to piston back onto the hard dick in his ass like he wanted to, but he didn’t have to; Travis was doing such a great job. No wonder girls stayed. He was a fucking God in bed. Wes was even too out-of-it to be embarrassed by the string of spit trailing down his chin; he could barely breathe. It was too much, getting to be way too much, and he turned his head back to try and kiss his partner again. And moaned, hoarse and needy, “T-Travis...”

That did it. Travis practically howled and bit into his shoulder like an animal. Wes _screamed_. Travis held Wes’ hips down and pumped furiously, and Wes could feel the hot liquid shoot out into the condom and try to fill up Wes’ ass. Wes wanted to look over his shoulder to see his partner’s face, but Travis’ head was buried in his shoulder. He rode it out and started fisting Wes harder, and it didn’t take much more for Wes to be moaning his own release, hissing, “ _Travisss_ ,” as he came, all over his partner’s hand and the mattress.

Then he slumped back bonelessly, spent, overwhelmed and utterly destroyed. They lay still for a few moments, taking it all in. Breathing heavily. Still locked in a tight embrace, bodies flush and glued together with sweat. Wes was panting so hard he could barely breathe, and so wet all over he couldn’t tell what was sweat and what was Travis’ spit.

“Shit,” Travis mumbled, after a moment, which broke the beautiful post-orgasm silence. “Wish I could’ve come in you.”

Wes was too satiated and broken to roll his eyes, but he could still mumble, “You did come in me.”

“In the condom, that’s different.” And he pulled out of Wes with a sick, wet popping sound, making Wes feel immediately empty. He felt even worse when Travis pulled away from him and got off the mattress, but he returned a moment later, cuddling back up against Wes’ back. He wrapped around his partner and Wes happily rested his head on Travis’ strong arm—his neck was getting sore from the lack of pillow.

But before he could demand he be released, he heard his partner’s heavy breathing, and knew he’d succumbed to the inevitable drunken and exhausted, sex-induced sleep.

Wes would’ve woken him up, but he was tired as hell and followed shortly after.

* * *

Wes woke up to familiar darkness, an ear-splitting headache, and the soreness that comes from sleeping with your wrists handcuffed to a wall.

It took a second for memories to start hazily returning, bit by bit, helped along by the fact that Wes was using a dark and muscled arm as a pillow. And he could still feel Travis pressed against him; his other arm was draped over Wes’ waist, and Wes could feel his partner’s morning wood against his sore ass.

Oh fuck. He didn’t remember everything, but given the situation, it wasn’t hard to fill in the holes. Which was a terrible expression for this case. Shit.

If he remembered one thing for certain, it was that it was all Travis’ fault.


End file.
